The Day the Violence Died
by Xyliette
Summary: A/U. Marriage/affair angst. I'm a slow dying flower in the frost killing hour // the sweet turning sour and untouchable. Mark/Addison. Derek/Addison.


A/N: The cut lyrics are from Natalie Merchant's "My Skin". Hope you enjoy-

**_~-~-~-~-~-~  
The Day the Violence Died  
- Jeniferever  
~-~-~-~-~-~_**

The irony in all of it will be that you just thought it would be nice to be touched; to be treated like anything other than the ghost you've become. Drifting from room to room, weight dropping as your interest in food wains; as every activity slowly becomes displeasing and monotonous, a reminder that there are things that you must do to sustain life but not to live it. You're thin as paper, light like a scarf winding in the breeze, you float in the worst possible way.

There's a cold settled into your bones. Not budging for saunas and bubble baths. Unmovable to masseuses and light hearted chats with the friends who swear they're gonna be there when it all finally explodes and swirls to the ground in staining ashes. The chill, it makes you question everything. The state of affairs you currently find yourself in – living out the marriage everyone who likes to judge hoped you would have; the exact relationship you thought was strong enough to resist this kind of warping.

It's silent. Traffic, fans, the buzz of the television on mute. Nothing can get the quiet out of your head. Nothing makes your bed more inviting and warm. Nothing lulls you to sleep when the sheep you've never counted refuse to cooperate. In this place, your home, there is no point in speaking to yourself and you are alone, without fail, constantly these days. Home. Sitting. Waiting. Hoping against every odd that's been piled onto your love life over the years.

And every single hour of every single day you are wrong. You are the fool. The idiot on the couch you both picked out together, under a blanket his mother made for you, reading a book that you can't remember the plot of no matter how long you stare at the pages. The worst in all of it is he doesn't see it. He makes you think you are crazy. He makes you want to rip out your hair and scream. He makes you want to cut, to hurt in another way than this dull ache, to blow it wide open, to destroy it all.

He makes you think think that the problem is rooted within yourself, not lodged somewhere in between the vows you thought were sincere.

You never win with Derek C. Shepherd and it used to be a fun game, a challenge you loved and the victories were so much sweeter than with the others who rolled over and gave you whatever you wanted. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell you when the timeout whistle blew or worse – you're standing on the field long after the game is over. He's not playing anymore.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"You do the room shame," Mark whispers into your ear as the grip on the champagne flute in your hand tightens imperceptibly.

You grin weakly despite yourself, because he's still around and that has to count for something. "Thank you."

"Ready for your speech?" He quirks his head to the side, eyes following a blonde you saw earlier across the room. When he brushes your waving hair behind your ear you realize he wasn't watching anyone else.

"I just wish this was over," you say honestly. You want to go home and sit. And wait. And hope. Because it's all you've got.

"He may show up. He's always full of surprises," Mark tells you.

Your head shakes and your voice cracks and you hate him somewhere that you can't find right now because all of your energy is being conserved, trying to keep it together in a room full of five hundred or so very important people. "Don't. Please."

"I'm sorry Addison."

Mark grabs your arm and pulls you close to him, his hand resting on your lower back, careful not to dip into the plunging black fabric. You tug back, to resist. "I'm not in the mood to dance."

"You love dancing."

"Not tonight."

"That's not the sort of thing that changes day to day," he reminds you. He tangles his fingers through yours as you sway slowly, your heart marching out the beat, wishing someone else was holding you. You wonder if he even thinks about you when you are away now; if he misses you when you disappear for conferences and random cases, if he even knows you are gone.

"I should go get ready." It's a lame excuse to get away. You steal the alcohol off the table you set it on and down it hastily, needing that burning liquid courage to you face your peers.

"Knock 'em dead."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"You, Dr. Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd, are a fabulous orator. Inspiring, really. I think I want to go save-"

"Mark," you cut him off, looking to find your slip for the coat check. "I need to go."

"Work?"

"No."

"Derek by some miracle?" He hugs you when you don't ask for it, when he realizes that he pushed the wrong button. "My sincerest apologies to the lady-"

"Cut it out," you say softly, mumbling into his shoulder. He's trying to fill in a role. He's attempting to step up but he's got it all wrong and it just comes out insincere and patronizing.

"Addison, I-" his voice drops uncomfortably. "He...I'm sure he just...fuck."

You chortle, tears caught in your throat. "Yes, that."

"You deserve better."

"Funny," you smile. "If someone told him this story he would tell me the exact same thing." You roll your eyes at yourself for being an emotional mess. "I'm going to go. Be nice to the women here Mark and try not to pick anyone I have to work with this week. I don't need that to deal with as well."

"I'll do my best." He nods his send off.

"Well, that's all we can ask for."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~_**

He's softer, gentler than you ever imagined him being with you. At least the few times you entertained the idea of screwing Mark Sloan up against a dresser. His fingers trace muscles and point out freckles and you impatiently try to get him to go faster, tearing out of your dress, reaching for his belt.

You're not even drunk and this is a mistake but you miss him and Mark's as close as you're getting tonight. "Please," you beg, toying with the zipper on his pants.

"Let me," he pleads, and suddenly realize that he wants this more than you; he needs it too.

His lips find your neck, sweetly sucking, toying with the ridge of your ear. His breath is already controlled and his chest is thumping against yours.

You let him.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"You stayed," he murmurs, turning over to get you in his grasp again, the morning light spilling through his open blinds and casting delicate, wavering shadows across the room.

The silence here is nice and welcome. The bed is warm and comfortable. The walls don't echo with your cries of sorrow and loss.

"I did," you affirm and settle in as he loops an arm over your hips.

Today you are an vindictive adulteress and a cheating whore.

But last night – God last night – you were loved.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~_**


End file.
